


Your Country Has Not Forgotten You

by onlyacoffee



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short vignettes about dying boys and the countries they choose to fight for.</p><p>
  <i>They sit against a wall together - a wall made from a heavy dinner table, a wheelbarrow and old, damaged sheets of linen. It is night. It is silent, except the delicate sound of the rain on the pavement. There are no cries of pain, no cracking of bullets. No breathing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the chief and France

**Author's Note:**

> this has probably been done before. but I couldn't help it. to both fandoms: I'm sorry.

They sit against a wall together - a wall made from a heavy dinner table, a wheelbarrow and old, damaged sheets of linen. It is night. It is silent, except the delicate sound of the rain on the pavement. There are no cries of pain, no cracking of bullets. No breathing.

Enjolras sighs, and his pale cheeks redden. He feels heavy, so heavy, lead everywhere in his body, but he is unhurt, and he resents it. There is blood on his hands even though he cannot see it anymore.

“I am sorry,” he breathes, the words foreign to his own ears although he could have sworn he meant to speak in French. “I failed… I failed them. They killed for me, and I killed them.”

The man next to him is calm, his shoulders steady while Enjolras’ are starting to shake.

“You haven’t, darling,” he says simply, the familiarity in his words somehow reassuring. His blue eyes are looking at Enjolras with such sincerity that he feels like crying.

He doesn’t, not yet. France don’t need his tears, nor his regret. Enjolras could not give the people what they needed, so he says what he can and hopes that, somehow, France will forgive him.

“I have,” he insists. “There is so much to be done and I…”

“Shh,” the man holds him closer. “You did what you could. You gave yourself for your country. I couldn’t ask for more, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

The tears come, then, mixing in with the rain on his face. And he talks, talks of his ideas and his ideals, of his friends and their fight. Of their end, fallen under the bullets of their brothers, men who are also children of France (France loves them, too, and he will comfort them when their time has come.)

He talks of the pain, the loneliness, the love and the hope.

Time has stopped, for a moment that feels like hours, until Enjolras tires and quiets. He closes his eyes, buries his face in the crook of the man’s neck and waits.

France kisses the top of his head. When Enjolras opens his eyes again, it is dawn. The man is gone, and the rain has stopped.

He hears singing.


	2. the orphan and Poland

Feuilly brings his arm to his face and coughs in his elbow. The air is thick with smoke and dust and gunpowder. It’s hard to breathe. He throws a look at the tiny blond thing somehow perched atop a broken chair a few meters up from where he is sitting, resting against the Musain’s brick wall.

“You… don’t have to stay here with me,” he rasps, wincing at the burn in his throat. “I’m… fine, alright.”

Worried eyes stare at him – like a cat’s, Feuilly’s thoughts travel idly from one image to another, yet this is what sticks. The rare beams of sunlight that pierce through the smoke make the bright green pupils twinkle.

“You were kind to me,” the blond says, as if this constitutes a good enough reason to stay. “You’re not even mine. Why were you kind to me?” The voice is high-pitched and demanding and the words are strange, but something in the youthful face seems almost scared, so Feuilly pushes past the pain in his throat to answer.

“I am no one’s,” he says slowly. The blond, surprisingly, listens. “Not by birth, at least. I wasn’t born to be anything, but I can choose to belong – or try to do something.” He chuckles dryly and immediately regrets it when he coughs again, this time tasting blood. “At the very least,” he finishes weakly.

“Shhh,” the other jumps down from the chair, quick and feline-like, and settles next to Feuilly, their bodies touching for the very first time. The air is cold for a June day, but the stranger - no, not a stranger exactly - is warm. Feuilly can barely follow the movement anymore, but he feels more at ease, now. 

“Don’t talk anymore, ‘kay? You’ve, like, done enough. I just…” Thin fingers run through the straw-coloured strands before resting, surprisingly strong, on Feuilly's shoulder. “Not sure I get it, mind, but I think I can totally accept that. So yeah.”

Feuilly nods, and doubles over in pain as he coughs again. The whole world is spinning, and his vision darkens.

“I’m Feliks, by the way,” the blond says when Feuilly’s coughing fit subsides. “I know it’s kinda late, but… ”

Feuilly attempts to smile and weakly holds out his hand – and he registers, numbly, that he can’t feel his fingers anymore.

Feliks shakes it anyway. “Don’t worry ‘bout me anymore. I’m tougher than I look.”

Feuilly meant to say something, Thank you or I’m glad or I know, but the words never reach his lips – and then it does not matter anymore, because while Feliks’ warm, familiar presence is gone, the smoke has cleared and Feuilly can breathe freely again.


End file.
